Judgment
by Kyndred.Raven
Summary: Holding the scales in your hands isn't always simple. Judgement isn't always straightforward. As the Inquisitor struggles to understand herself and her decisions, she finds that she doesn't need to be alone in doing so. (Cullen/F!Lavellan)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is a 3 part piece written in response to a lighthearted prompt on kinkmeme, The story itself took a darker turn than I expected at first, but I enjoyed writing this a lot. Would love to know what you guys think :) Part 2 and 3 coming soon!

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><p><strong>Judgement<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_._

_Who am I?_

I don't recognize myself. I've lost sense of who I am. I've always believed myself to be a good and rational person – someone who looked at situations from the outside with a critical eye. It's why I've always believed in the judgments I've decided in this throne, why I've never doubted my decisions. Now, things are different. There's a demon within me. At least, that's how it feels. This anger, this darkness inside me – I don't know where it came from or how I can harbor it. All I know is that I have to keep moving forward. Despite my fear and my confusion, I have to keep playing this game.

_Who am I?_

I watch the man kneeling before me with an icy gaze. I don't know why, but it pleases me to see him kneeling; it soothes the inner beast to see the blood and bruises beneath the thick chains around his wrists. I'm furious. I'm burning with a fire that I feel could never be quenched. What's wrong with me? My limbs are numb, and my head is spinning. It takes all of my strength to remain sitting upright. None of this feels real. More like a nightmare. It's been this way since we returned from Adamant. The events that transpired there still haunt me, memories circling before my eyes like heartless specters who revel in my torment.

At the heart of it all is this man – this _monster_. Through trickery, manipulation, and lies, he's caused unimaginable damage. The Wardens are lost, their oaths broken, and their Order torn apart from within. Will they ever be able to pick up the pieces? I fear not. In response to this understanding, my heart clenches, withering like a dying plant trapped beneath a rain of acid. It hurts. It _hurts_! Creators take me. Mythal curse me. Dread Wolf eat my soul. It's not just pain. It's so much more. Guilt, regret, a hollow ache in my chest where my heart should be. So hollow – like someone's punched a hole through my torso. I wonder if it's still there - my heart. My fingers press against my chest, massaging leather and metal. I can't feel it. Does that mean it's gone?

_Who am I?_

"Inquisitor?"

Is that who I am?

I turn my attention to Josephine. She's looking at me with expectation. How long has she been calling me? Respond. Talk. Give an order. That's right. I should say something. This _shemlen_ travesty – this circus – must go on.

"Proceed," I command, my voice tight and unwavering. Josephine nods and reads off the prisoner's crimes, but there's no need. His actions will forever be branded into my soul - into the very heart and core of Thedas. Nothing will ever be the same. As Josephine reads from the parchment in front of her, the list seems to go on and on. My fingers twitch. I feel the magic singing in my blood – calling to burn this man alive. I could turn him to ashes in an instant if I choose. Wait. No. The sudden bout of cruelty terrifies me. I don't understand it.

I haven't understood many of my feelings since we returned to Skyhold and this man was marched in here. It's been close to an hour now, and all I've been able to look at is the nape of his neck. I envision his execution and imagine swinging my Inquisitor's sword, feeling the vibrations in my fingers as steel rends through flesh and bone. The spray of blood will no doubt be magnificent. Will he feel it, I wonder? Will he feel the breeze of my sword? Will there be a moment in which he'll see the world tilt and shift as his head goes flying? My mind rebels against the image. Horrifying. Sickening. Barbaric.

No.

Justice!

Yet, would it be enough? Could a quick death compensate for all the souls he's led into oblivion? In the end, he was just a pawn in the hands of a greater evil. Not that this excuses him or the atrocities he's made good people commit. It wouldn't bring back all the Wardens we've lost. It wouldn't cleanse those of the Order of the blood that now stains their hands. It won't reverse time. My chest hurts again – the wound there festering and rotting. My vision blurs, my mind floating in a haze. I'm scarred, and no healing magic in the world could ever cleanse the poison in my soul. Cutting off this _shemlen's_ head won't heal my wounds. It won't erase the memories of the Fade - the nightmare that we had to live through or the sacrifices made to leave it. It won't erase the screaming of my soldiers on the battlements. Those bloodcurling screams. Even now, Josephine's voice fades out and I can hear them; they are fighting in a battle that should never have happened.

"Is there anything you would like to say in your defense?" Josephine prompts. At last, the Mage raises his head. The defiance hasn't been beaten out of him yet. He smiles and spits something about attaining eternal glory through death. He rails and rants at me until the Templars at his sides force him to the ground and subdue him. There's no doubt in his voice. This lunatic is convinced that he's serving a higher purpose. He doesn't regret all he's done. Perhaps if he did, I would have been tempted to be lenient. However, seeing the malice on his face makes me feel like I've swallowed tar. My throat constricts, and as I look into his remorseless eyes, I hear the screams again. I see blood staining both Warden armor and the flag of the Inquisition. I see a massacre. I relive it all again.

And again.

And again.

What's happening to me?

"Inquisitor? What is the verdict?" I sit back, pressing my shoulders hard against the throne. Death would be too swift - too merciful. I want this man to suffer; I yearn for it like I've wanted nothing else. Taking a moment, I look around the room. I already know what my companions would want. We've been together long enough for me to understand them. They would not approve of what I have planned. Perhaps they might even confront me about it later. At this point, I don't care. It's hard to really care about anything right now. Maggots grind and chew at the wound in my chest; maybe if I scratch it enough, the pain will stop. I don't flinch when I feel the sharp points of my gauntlet pierce the leather there and saw through skin. Everything feels far away.

Until I look at Varric.

Then it all comes into focus.

The choices. The sacrifices. The consequences.

"Tranquility." My voice rings out across the hall. "A Mage's crimes," I say as I rise to my feet. "A Mage's punishment." I look at Josephine. She's shocked. Most of my companions are. Some of the nobles gasp. There are Mages here, too. Our allies. They frown when they understand that I'm completely serious. No one questions me, however. They wouldn't dare. The Templars haul the man to his feet. At last, he's afraid. At last, I see something besides cruelty in his eyes. The ache in my chest is momentarily soothed.

"It...It will be done, Your Worship," Josephine bows. I don't look away from the prisoner. Something inside of me thrills to see the desperation flooding his face. Let him choke on it. Let him drown in it. Let me revel in it.

_Who am I?_

Dread Wolf take my soul.

"I want to watch," I tell the Ambassador. "I will preside over the ritual myself." The Ambassador's eyes widen. I watch her struggle for a political way to dissuade me. She's confused; for good reason. If _I_ don't recognize myself, she likely doesn't understand what's happening, either. And she's not the only one. Whispers break out in the hall. No need to explain why. I already know. This is starting to sound personal. This is starting to look like raw vengeance. I am the Inquisitor. I am Justice in these parts of Thedas. To say what I've just said makes me seem like nothing more than a bloodthirsty and vengeful soldier.

I don't care.

Let them whisper. Let them sneer at me.

I want to see this man's soul leave his body. I want to see him lose himself for all eternity. I want to observe as every shred of him is wiped from the face of this earth. And then – then, perhaps I can do more. Perhaps I'll use my daggers on him. Make him scream. Will a Tranquil even react to pain? It could be an interesting experiment. The pain in my chest recedes as I imagine carving my vengeance into him. Not just for me, but for all the people he's killed. For Thedas. For the Wardens who have sacrificed so much. For the nightmares my friends had to face within the rift. For _her_.

For Hawke.

And for him. For Varric.

"Inquisitor," a hand settles on my shoulder, snapping me out of my trance. "Please, a word." I see the criminal being dragged away, kicking and screaming. No time for pleasantries. My feet move to follow, but something stops me. A firm hand around my wrist; the grip is painful, almost bruising. "Inquisitor." I whirl around and see Cullen, his face grave and dark. I watch the nobles clear out of the hall, note the displeasure on our allies' faces as they shuffle outside. After they're gone, I let Cullen tug me into the hall that leads to the war room. There's accusation in his eyes – a palpable aura of disapproval surrounding his every move.

"Not now, Commander," I protest. "I have somewhere to be." He stops, his head snapping around to look at me.

"What in the Maker's name was _that_?"

"What was what?" I ask in a low monotone.

"_That!_ Your behavior back there. You weren't acting like the Inquisitor, but like some sort of _tyrant_." He rubs his temples. "We do not use Tranquility as a punishment," he growls. "We are _not_ Templars or the Chantry." When I see how deeply he means what he says – the disappointment on his face – the pain in my chest returns with a vengeance. A rock crushes my lungs. I can't breathe. Legs wavering, knees weakening, I sag against the wall. My vision darkens, and I shake my head to clear it. My lips form words:

"Execution would have made him a martyr to a false god. Imprisonment would have been too kind for all the lives he's taken. Banishment is not an option, as he will simply crawl back to Corypheus."

"But, Tranquility?" Cullen repeats, a frown digging lines into his forehead. "This goes against what the Inquisition stands for." He grimaces. "And then saying you want to _watch?_ I don't understand. This isn't like you…"

"You suggest I let him go, Commander?"

"No, but…"

"Then give me a suggestion or stop questioning me," I threaten. He straightens his shoulders and purses his lips.

"I suggest an _execution_ – swift and clean."

"_What?_" I'm displeased, taken aback by the mercy of this idea. "You _heard_ him. He _wants_ that, and I refuse to give that bastard what he wants." My voice lowers. "He's a monstrosity that cannot be allowed to do any more harm. He's destroyed the Wardens, killed so many innocents, and caused so many more to suffer. He's…" I stop, hearing the fury in my voice escalating. My eyes sting. Creators, no. Surely not tears. Not good. I can't break down here. I stop talking, afraid that if I say one more word, I'll make a fool of myself.

"All of that sounds personal," Cullen protests. "As the Inquisitor, you can't judge using such bias." My hand comes up and I massage the pain in my heart. It's getting worse beneath Cullen's scrutiny. I've always wondered why he hadn't been made the Inquisitor all those months ago. Or Cassandra. Even Leliana. Why me? What made them think I could handle these decisions? What made them think I was the right person for this job? All I've ever known is the forest and nature. I miss the simplicity of the hunt; I miss the days of bounding through the wilderness without a care. I miss the challenge of carving my own bow from wood and ironbark. I miss praying to my gods for guidance.

_Who am I? What have I become?_

The question breaks whatever hypnosis my mind has been under. All thoughts of vengeance dissipate. I suddenly don't care how the man will suffer. I don't care how he'll look when he's cut off from the Fade. I balk at the realization that I was about to order soldiers under my command to allow me to watch as a man was tortured. Stars above, I would have done the deed _myself_ if I could. The thought is as damning as it is toxic. I turn away from my Commander – shame flooding me. All I want is to be alone – to go to my room, collapse into bed, and give into oblivion. I need time. I can't process all of this right now. I can't breathe anymore. The fire inside me is so intense now that I feel I might be burning alive.

"I've made my decision," I tell Cullen and move to leave. He makes a sound of frustration and slams his hands against the wall on either side of me, trapping me in place. His larger body looms over mine. He's done this a few times when we kissed, but there's nothing intimate about this moment. There's only the pain – the horrible agony in my chest. And the screaming in my ears. I can't let him see me like this. Not Cullen. He loves me for my strength, and I fear that if he sees this broken thing that I'm becoming, he will lose all respect for me entirely. If he hasn't already. He leans down, and his voice gentles. He isn't speaking to me as the Commander now, but as my friend.

"It doesn't have to be now. We can hold him in the cells for a time, wait a few days, then order an execution instead. It wouldn't set a precedent for a judgment to be changed. Can't you see that – " His voice grinds to a halt. One of his hands slides under my chin, turning my head aside. "Maker, you're _bleeding_…" I follow his eyes to my chest. My gauntlet has torn through the hide and scales of my armor. I pull my hand away to see that the sharp articulations of my glove are tipped with red.

"I suppose I am," I reply listlessly, not really caring. "Must be a wound from the battle." That's when Cullen looks at me; really _looks_ at me.

"You're so pale. Are you alright?" he asks, his voice softening further. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have rounded on you. I just…"

"It doesn't matter," I shake my head.

"Yes, it does. Have you been resting? You look exhausted."

"I am. Tired, that is. I'm going to go now, Cullen. I'll be in my quarters, and I don't want to be disturbed." I don't wait for him to reply. Ducking under his arm, I make my way to my room. I don't mean to shut him out. Creators know that that is the last thing I want to do. There's still so much that I don't understand about my love for him. A human. A _shemlen_. By all logic, we shouldn't be together. Yet, I ache for him. At night, I yearn to have him by my side. When I'm away from him, I feel so lonely – like the entire world is a massive empty nothing without him beside me. So why am I running now? I know that if I ask, he will likely give me some of his strength. He will likely find a way to comfort me. But that's weakness, isn't it? A man like him wouldn't respect that. A man like him needs a strong woman, and I can't be that right now.

As I walk, my surroundings fall away. If someone calls my name, I can't hear them. My head is filled with memories again. The screams of the soldiers; the shrieks of the demons in the Fade; the way Hawke looked at me before she charged to fight against the monster. I _made_ that choice. I could have chosen Stroud. He would have happily made the sacrifice. But Hawke had insisted. She pleaded for me to allow her to fulfill her duty, and I was too weak to deny her. We hadn't been close, but we were friends. We had so much in common, even with her human blood. She was strong and beautiful – incredible and unique. Beneath the moonlight, we talked for hours about our lives, sharing ideas and visions for the way the world should be. I respected her; I even envied her. And now, she was dead. I failed more than her and the Wardens that day. Varric's loss was greater than mine. I'll never forget his face – the expression that twisted it when he found out.

The climb up the stairs to my quarters is slow. My legs are trapped in molasses; my body feels heavy. I'm hot – so hot that I wish I could jump into a frozen pool. Anger stirs in my core – fury at the injustice of it all. I'm stopped at the door by a familiar face. It's a serving girl. I see her lips move, but I can't hear what she says. The roaring in my ears is too loud. I don't resist when she takes my hand and leads me inside. She points to a bathtub standing in the alcove in my room; steam rises from the water within. She says something else, then leaves.

I walk to the tub and wave my hand over it. The steam disappears, replaced by ice. This was a gift from one of our allies in Antiva. It's made of some sort of white material that's heavier than limestone or rock. The sides are decorated with inked illustrations of shells and conchs. The tub's legs are shaped like lion paws, complete with claws that help keep the structure steady. I take a deep breath and smell the scent of flowers and herbal oils. Taking long soaks in the hot water has become one of my habits and rare pleasures. My smile is bitter. Perhaps now it can serve me in a different capacity.

I kick off my boots and peel off my tunic, but that's all I bother to take off before I sink into the enormous tub. At first, I gasp as the frigid water closes around my body. The cold stings the scratches on my chest. Now that my tunic is gone, I can see that I've clawed apart the area pretty thoroughly. My clothing sticks to me like a second skin, the cold sending sharp pinpricks of discomfort into my muscles, but the sensation quickly dissipates. It's not _enough_, in fact. That fire is still burning in my veins – the desire to carve even a fraction of my pain into that prisoner's flesh. Could I make him regret what he's done? Could I make him atone? Disgusting. The thought that I'd be willing to try frightens and sickens me.

This isn't who I am.

Seeking to put out the fire in my blood, I sink deeper into the water. This tub really is too large. I'm sure that two or three people could fit in here, and with me being so small, I can easily stretch out. I do so, floating on the surface before letting all the air out of my lungs and submerging myself entirely beneath the icy water. I'm a proficient swimmer. Back during my days with the Clan, I used to go to the lake and swim for hours at time. Holding my breath is no challenge. Beneath the water, my mind seems to clear somewhat. The roaring stops; the screams cease. Finally, it's quiet. I float in darkness, basking in the silence. I don't want to remember anything of the past several days – not Adamant, not Hawke, not the Wardens, and especially not the disappointment in Cullen's eyes. Have I failed in my duty? I'm supposed to be just and fair. I'm a Mage myself, yet I sentenced a man to Tranquility – the rite that terrifies all Mages no matter their origin. Did I fail the Inquisition? Have I become a monster, too?

When I feel that I might drown if I don't get some air, I finally break the surface. Desperate to look at my reflection, I roll out of the tub and walk to a full length mirror situated next to my bed. My sodden armor is emblazoned with the Inquisition's insignia – an emblem we've been working to promote as a symbol of true justice and order. It doesn't belong on me. Not now. I've soiled it with my actions and my failures. Unsheathing the herbal cutting knife on the small of my back, I tear through as much armor as I can. What I can't cut, I rip off until I'm standing naked in front of the mirror. The scratches on my chest contract strongly with the palor of my skin. I drink in the sight.

_Who am I?_

_I don't know any more._

The room fades away as the battle replays in my head. Cullen's commands. Trebuchets firing. Hawke's determined face. And then the killing starts. Not of our enemies, but of Wardens – the only humans I've ever truly admired. I grew up on stories of their sacrifice. My Keeper disapproved of my curiosity, but every chance that I could, I would go to nearby _shemlen_ settlements and lap up stories of the mighty Wardens – of the Hero of Ferelden. Their ideals had always seemed nobler than many. And now…now, I've killed so many of them. I pleaded, but they wouldn't listen. I begged, but they were determined to destroy themselves. And for what? One man who led them all astray and a monster who thought himself a god.

Something bitter stings my throat. My vision blurs as my quarters come back into focus. I realize that I've crawled past the bathtub and am emptying the contents of my stomach into a nearby vase. I try to stop, to control the heaving, but I can't. Every time I pull back, the faces of the Wardens flash in my mind. Bloody, fearful, confused – dead. When my body has nothing more to give, I back up and curl up in a corner, pulling my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth. Time stops. I lose track of it, and I don't have enough will to find it again. I sit here until my muscles hurt and I begin to shiver, until my eyes close, my teeth chatter, and the screaming lessens.

A knock at my door makes me jump. I open my eyes and see that the sun has gone down. At first, I'm terrified that Cullen didn't listen – that he'll see me in this state. Someone forces open the door and walks in, calling my name. Thank the Stars; it isn't Cullen. It's someone with dark hair, bronzed skin, and dove grey eyes. When he sees me, those eyes grow cold as frozen metal.

"Go away, Dorian," I rasp. "Leave me alone." He doesn't say anything, just stomps over to the bed and pulls off the sheets. When he kneels beside me, he wraps the soft cloth around my body. I can't even summon up a shred of embarrassment at the fact that I'm naked. We're beyond that, me and him. "Please leave," I beg him.

"No. That I _won't_ do," he assures me. He presses a hand against my forehead, then his knuckles against my cheek and my neck. "How long have you been here like this? I knew something wasn't right. That _judgment_ wasn't right. Some advisors _they_ are. They should have spoken to you about it, come to some kind of consensus before throwing you out there to the wolves. And after what happened…" He would know, wouldn't he? He was there, too, fighting and killing by my side. Always by my side.

"Nothing is wrong," I insist, fighting to keep my voice even. "Please, just go. I need to be alone." Instead of taking my wishes into consideration, he loops an arm around my back and under my knees and lifts me up. I'm too weak to resist and hang limp like a doll in his hold. My cheek presses against his chest.

"You're frozen stiff," he mumbles and, somehow balancing me in one arm, walks to the tub and heats the water within to a near boil. Steam rises from the surface once more. I gasp as he lowers me into the bath, blanket and all. The heat is painful; thawing is agonizing. He walks over to my bedside table where he snags a wine glass and a bottle of alcohol I've never opened. Another gift from one of our allies. When he walks over and sits beside the tub, I frown.

"I won't drink that," I tell him.

"Who said it was for _you_?" he quirks an eyebrow. "If I'm going to be sitting here and making sure you don't drown, I've got to have a little entertainment." He examines the bottle. "Not bad. A good year. Not what I would have personally chosen, but…" he shrugs and pops open the cork.

"I want to be alone," I glare at him.

"Had you been alone any longer, we might have to pick out a new Inquisitor." He frowns. "Not sure I'd like that. For all your strange mannerisms and poor taste in attire, I enjoy your company and all of our adventures." I hear the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. "By the way, would you mind explaining why you're sitting in here in the nude when there's a perfectly usable bathtub just a few steps away?" Something about his demeanor finally breaks me. His kindness hurts, especially when I feel I don't deserve it.

"Dorian," I whisper.

"You can tell me," he says right away, as though sensing that I'm vulnerable. I find myself baring my pain to him, stripping myself of all layers of indifference and revealing everything that's been boiling underneath. Words pour out of me like rivers flooding after days of rain. He covers my shaking hands with his own and listens. Wonderful, gold-hearted, Dorian. The best friend I could ever ask for. Before I know it, he's pushing the wine glass into my hands and urging me to drink.

"I don't know…" I confess after I've had a few sips. A part of me realizes that I'm crying, but I can't even feel the tears on my face. "I don't know who I am any more…"

"You're our Inquisitor, of course. But I shouldn't be the one to tell you this. There are…" he gestures in the air as though searching for the right words, "…better qualified individuals?" I look in his eyes and understand what he's implying.

"N-No," I hiccup between sobs and attempts to calm down. My hand squeezes the glass. "He can't see me like this. N-no one can see me like this."

"I have," he grins.

"You're my f-friend," I protest. My mind starts to feel fuzzy and I glance at the bottle on the floor. "What's in this?"

"Just some herbs to help calm you down," Dorian says. "You're in shock, darling. Don't worry, it will just help you sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," I protest as Dorian peels back the sheet to look at the scratches on my chest. He pulls something out of a pack on his waist and dabs at it. The stinging feels distant and surreal. "I just want the screams to stop."

"And they will. Just give it time," he assures me.

"They won't stop. The screaming and the blood. They won't...stop..." Everything is growing hazy now. I hear Dorian call my name, and I try to answer. But my body is so heavy. My eyelids close, and as the screaming in my head intensifies, I finally lose consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So I know the previous readers will recall that I mentioned that this would be a 2 part series. However, after much agonizing, rewriting, and editing, I've decided to make this a three-part story. Don't worry! Part 3 is, in fact, almost complete. I just felt the pacing would be much better served if spaced out this way. Not to mention, I wouldn't have to sacrifice characterization for speed/length.

For those wondering why the heroine doesn't have a name - it's done as part of the challenge of the prompt so that the reader might view this from the perspective of whatever heroine they wish :)

**Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to my wonderful readers!**

This is my gift to you! (As is part 3 when it comes out in the next day or two)

If this made you smile, please let me know. Your happiness is your gift to me 3

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><p><strong>Judgment <strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 2 - Awakening<strong>

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><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_._

_I am…_

_Who am I?_

The question is still unanswered. It whispers to me in the darkness, urging me to find the truth. In my life, I have been many things. Dalish, a huntress, an elf, the Keeper's First, a Herald to a _shemlen_ legend, and now the Inquisitor. But, where the boundaries between these things used to be simple, now they've crumbled. Things aren't as defined as they were before; Justice isn't as simplistic as it may have once been. Where I might once have known what to do when a criminal was brought before me, now I tremble at the thought. I fear that I am crossing the line between fairness and vendetta and thus, losing the sense of who I am.

_I must find myself._

Now that I have a mission, the darkness holds no sway.

The first to awaken is my heart. Like before, it's heavy in my chest. Like before, it throbs and pains me.

Next is my memory – raw, bruised, full of anguish and regret.

It isn't easy to awaken my body. I don't want to face the world. I don't want to look into the eyes of those left behind the latest tragedies. That, and I'm enjoying my dream. I'm in the forest of my youth, taking a break after a particularly long hunt. The trees sway with a gentle breeze, sunlight filtering through their slender branches and lighting up my favorite lake. Even when I take off my armor and sink into the water, I don't shiver. Here, I'm blissfully warm. Here, the Conclave never took place. The Keeper never sent me to investigate the affairs of humans. I've never met any creature called Corypheus, and there's always a tomorrow. It's just another day – another chance for me to feel free.

_This is not freedom…_

_This is a dream…_

The words are unwelcome, but undeniably true. My logic is as merciless as always. I suppose I couldn't hide here forever, after all. Something catches my attention. The sound of voices arguing. I flip over and tread through the water, trying to make out the identity of a pair of figures on the shore. They look like humans.

_Shemlen? Here?_

Curious, I swim towards them, for not just any humans can find their way to this lake. The paths in this forest are winding and long. Being Dalish, we learn to map the forest at a young age while humans simply wander and lose themselves in it. Have they blundered in here by accident? Are they hunters or soldiers?

As I get closer to shore, the water grows colder. By the time I can make out the details on the figures' clothing, my muscles are tense and trembling. The humans are both men, one wearing crimson armor and the other dressed in elaborate robes of an origin that I don't recognize. The man with dark hair and bronze skin is upset, his gestures stiff and aggressive as he speaks to the one with lighter hair.

"If I hadn't come in when I did, you'd be arranging a funeral now instead of an execution," he glares.

"You can't just keep her locked in here, drugged and asleep - "

"She needs time, Commander. She isn't a doll. You can't truss her up and parade her around, expecting her to have no feelings."

"I never implied that. None of us did. We are _all_ concerned about her, Dorian."

The dark-haired man snorts at that. "Concerned? If you're so concerned, then where were you that night? Her lips were _blue._ She was half frozen and incoherent…" he snaps, then stops as though he's said too much. "You weren't here. You didn't see what I saw, and I hope you never do." He makes a sound of disgust. "That's what sickens me. You claim to love her, yet you weren't here when she needed you the most."

I watch the light-haired man's face crumple, and the expression tugs at me. I want to rush to him and soothe that guilt from his features. There's no need for it. This isn't his fault. I was the one that chose to distance myself from everyone. He already has so much on his shoulders; there's no need for this to burden him as well. I reach out to him, but I'm weak, too weak to do more than whisper something before my eyes close and I drift off again.

How strange. I didn't even realize that I was awake. What were they arguing about? I almost remember a plausible reason when the water around me grows cold and frigid. I look down and see that the halcyon lake beneath me has transformed to a black pool. Fear grips me as I realize that I'm floating over an abyss. My surroundings change. Things begin to float up around me. Heads severed from bodies. Faces. My breath freezes when I lift my hand and see that the water around me has transformed to blood.

These are people I remember from Adamant – Wardens and Inquisition soldiers. Their eyes open – black as the Void and sightless – to stare at me as though their owners blame me for their death. Of course they do. It's my fault. I should have spent more resources to keep an eye on Corypheus's movements. I should have tried harder to convince them to stop fighting us. I should have found a way to resolve this without losing so many lives.

Should have.

Should have.

But never could.

Hands emerge from the water and grip my shoulders and arms. I offer no resistance. If they want to take me, so be it. If they want to drown me, then I likely deserve it. If they want to rip me apart, then I have nothing to offer in my defense.

It was my fault.

All of it.

The sightless eyes stare at me for what seems like an eternity. I'm not without fear. In fact, I'm shaking with it. Cold sweat kisses my brow. Clammy fingers of dread caress my abdomen. The water grows colder and colder. Steam wafts from my lips with each trembling breath. I can hear my heart beating – slow and sluggish. The faces wait. What for, I don't know. Perhaps they are judging me now as I judged so many from my Dragonbone throne in Skyhold. At length, a voice speaks – the tone low and unfamiliar:

"_Tranquility. A Mage's crime. A Mage's punishment." _

Then I gasp with terror and denial as something grabs my feet and I'm pulled into the darkness.

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My own screaming finally rips me out of the clutches of my nightmare and hurtles me into the waking world. It's not a smooth transition, especially considering that I'm still seeing flashes of images of a raging battle – scraps left over from the Fade. I can still feel the heat of fanning flames, hear the booming of firing trebuchets, and smell the smoke and blood in the air. In my hand, I'm still wielding my staff, twisting and bending to avoid hailing arrows and overextending my mana to shield my comrades behind barriers. Beneath my feet, I can feel bodies. I step on them and over them as we make progress towards the true threat – the Wardens at the heart of the fortress.

Wardens and our own soldiers lay prostrated on the steps and battlements. It isn't the sight of blood or the gore of their wounds that burns into my mind like a brand; it's their faces. Their eyes are open, looking heavenward as though praying for their Maker to save them. What does that mean for someone like me, someone who doesn't and has never believed in the Maker? What does that label me, who leads the Inquisition under the banner of the Herald? Doesn't it mean they died for nothing? Doesn't it mean they've laid down their lives for an empty cause?

And then the screaming begins.

It's a sound more terrible than anything I've ever heard. When that starts, I throw down my staff and cover my ears. I collapse, joining the plethora of dead beneath my feet. My body goes rigid then curls in on itself. I roll in an attempt to get away from the horrid sound and flail as I snap open my eyes and fall off a bed. On the way down, I hit the corner of the dresser with the side of my face. The impact knocks me nearly senseless and makes me bite my cheek. As I lay on the stone floor, feeling the cold seep into my bones, tasting blood, and watching the ceiling spin in uneven circles, I try to get my bearings. It feels like lifetimes pass before the screaming abates and I can think straight again.

That's when someone calls my name. The whisper is silken soft, tinged with hesitation, concern, and something else. Another emotion. One I can't identify just now. I sit up, my hand cradling what will likely be a bruised jaw. The darkness shifts around me. For the first time, I notice that it's night outside. The moon is high above, shining tendrils of blue velvet light into a room I recognize as mine. A shape swims into view – red robes and glinting armor. Golden hair, mussed and tousled. Amber eyes, hard around the edges but liquid and warm in the center. Recognition is a long time in coming, but when it does arrive, confusion is trailing close behind.

The Commander looks disheveled – robes twisted and armor in disarray. He's sitting on a divan next to my bed, a coverlet pooling around his hips and no pillow in sight. How long has he been there? It couldn't have been comfortable. Where I can easily curl up or stretch out on that sofa, it's much too small for him. His legs are too long and his shoulders too broad. As he stands up, I note his slight limp; it's almost as though he's been sitting too long and his leg has gone numb. He doesn't seem to notice in his haste to join me. My head swivels as I follow his awkward movements, surprised when he kneels beside me.

He hesitates to touch me, and it takes me longer than it should to realize that I'm shaking like a leaf in the wind. The moon behind him is huge and bright, throwing his face into shadow. The angle of his body suggests that he wants to embrace me. Yet, just as he reaches out to me, the night sighs, her wintry breath streaming through the curtains and causing me to flinch. He mistakes my reaction as fear and draws back. Instead of pulling me close as intended, he settles for moving my bangs away from my eyes.

"It's alright. You're safe," he promises.

"Cullen?" I rasp, my voice hoarse from disuse. I feel as though I haven't spoken a word in days.

"Yes, it's me." When I don't immediately say anything, his brow furrows and he brushes a gloved hand against my face, his fingers sinking into my hair. Helpless to stop myself, I lean into his touch. It feels incredible, and yet the gesture unravels me in a thousand different ways. The remnants of my nightmare release me from their clutches, almost as though his touch has driven them away. In their wake, I'm left with nothing but a hollow feeling, the sensation that my skin is not my own. Cullen's eyes bore into me. I want to tell him everything, but I hesitate. I'd decided I wouldn't share any of this with him, hadn't I? I'd resolved to keep this bottled up and hidden away where only I and perhaps Dorian could see it.

"Are you alright?" he asks. I back away from him, wrapping my arms around my shoulders and turning around.

"I…don't know…" I reply, a part of me wishing he would leave so he wouldn't see me in such a state.

"Is there anything I can do?"

I shouldn't say anything. He'll hate me. He'll think I'm a coward.

"Please tell me." His fingers travel to the back of my neck while his other hand takes hold of one of mine and brings it to his lips. Skin against skin. Each movement, a blade. Each word, a knife. Together, they hack at my resolve. I _ache_ for him and for the promise of shelter that he offers.

"How can I ease your pain?" Everything about my countenance and my silence should reject him, but he doesn't leave. I'm helpless in the face of his persistence. Though I'm fully dressed in a loose chemise, I feel naked. Word by word, movement by movement, he cuts away my defenses until I'm left trembling and bare before him – exposed in a way that I've never been.

"Cullen…"

"I've been worried sick," he admits, and I can see that it's not something he does easily. Even in this darkness, I notice a heated flush creep up to darken his cheeks, and I understand. It's a weakness, this love we share. It's a vulnerability that we can hardly afford in our positions as the leaders of the Inquisition. Yet here we are, helpless to resist it. "Three days," he murmurs, his grip tightening on my hand. "For three days, I didn't know what to think. You left me looking a bit ill and in just a few hours…" He stops; can't continue. I can see the words choking him with remembrance and emotion. He's too strong to let them take control, and in this moment, that strength seems more precious than anything.

"I'm glad you're awake now. How are you feeling?"

I can't answer, though I do try. What comes out is something that sounds like a cross between a whimper and a sob. Explaining all the things running through my head is impossible. How do you describe something that you can't understand yourself? So, I don't bother. Instead, I act upon instinct and emotion. I don't just wrap my arms around him; I throw myself _into_ him. I imagine diving into my favorite lake and becoming one with the tranquil waters. That's what I want – to melt until I break the boundary between us.

There's so much force behind my movements that I push him back with an audible _oomph_ of surprise. He's so big and strong. Like a wall. Right now, that's what I need – something solid and immovable; something that won't shift beneath my feet like treacherous ice in a half frozen river. If I'm the sword, then he is my shield. I don't care if he'll think less of me; I don't care if I look like a needy child. I yearn for an anchor to this world – a tether to keep my sanity from slipping back into the guilt-ridden darkness of my restless dreams.

"It's all my fault," I whisper. "They're dead because of me. I _killed_ them…" Over and over, one after another, the confessions slip from my lips. Water over the edge of a waterfall. Crumbling rocks over the edge of a cliff. I don't even know if what I'm saying makes any sense. Not that it matters. The moment Cullen wraps his arms around me and gives me the shelter I seek, I break. The tears start to flow, and there's no stopping them this time. He strokes my hair and holds me close, cradling my body between his legs and giving me everything in a wealth of silence and attention. Reaching up, he pulls the blanket off my bed and tucks it around me. He listens, encourages me to continue, and wraps me in a cloak of acceptance and understanding.

It's so much more than I expected from the stern Commander – so much more than I feel that I deserve. I've seen his gentleness before, but not like this. His demeanor is different this time. He smells of leather and steel, of comfort and calm. And above that, there's a trace of something else, spicy and dangerous. His breastplate should feel cold and unnatural against my cheek, but I can't feel anything but the blazing heat of his embrace. When, at last, I have no more tears left and my breathing is slow and steady again, he kisses the crown of my head.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "I should have realized what happened. Even after I read the report, all I could think about was how the judgment would affect the Inquisition and the political ramifications of what we were going to do. I didn't consider your feelings." I try to explain that it isn't his fault. How could he have known that this would happen when I didn't anticipate it myself? I had no idea that I harbored such a weakness.

"It isn't a weakness," he assures me. "It's been a long time since I was thrown into my first battle. I've been fighting for so long that I'd forgotten what that was like."

"It's not my first…" I protest. I've been fighting ever since I stepped from the rift, and I've never been affected so strongly. What's thrown me into such confusion?

"But it _is_," he maintains. "You've fought on the _field_ before, but a siege of this magnitude is different. The men we lost, the death of the Wardens, the dragon…and then your rift and what you saw in the Fade…" he shakes his head. "And the judgment. After thinking it over, I realized what it was that you were trying to do. However…"

"I wanted to see him tortured," I interrupt. "I wasn't judging him. I was," my voice catches. "You were right to doubt me, Cullen. I don't understand myself anymore."

"It will pass," he promises. "We are all soldiers; every one of us. This war has spilled into everyone's lives and, willing or not, we must fight." Experience accents every one of his words, making me wish I'd known him for longer than I have. "War stays with you. Even after many years have passed, you'll still remember the battles and the haze of adrenaline on the field. But, as time passes, you'll find that you doubt yourself less and less. Confidence crowns a seasoned warrior." I find myself wanting to know more about his past and all he's been through.

"And the screaming?" I ask, my voice small and tremulous. His arms tense around me. "Will that go away, too?" Cullen doesn't say anything for a long time. Then, his fingers slide under my chin, and I look up at him.

"I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?" The amber of his eyes has melted, even around the edges. The remorse there is raw and true. I shake my head and attempt a smile.

"There's nothing to forgive." Behind us, the curtains billow out as the night gives another restless sigh. I sit up, putting my weight on my knees as I lean up to kiss my Commander's cheek. My lips tingle. He hasn't shaved in some time, and his stubble is scratchier than usual. Using my fingers, I comb back his hair, moving the soft curls away from his cheeks. Finger pads brush against dark smudges under his eyes. He looks somewhat like himself again, though I'm certain that only a night or two of solid rest could fix it. A thought occurs to me.

"Have you been here with me all this while?" The answer is present in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the way he turns away from me and looks at me from the side, as though wary of meeting my gaze full on. He's embarrassed and uncertain, perhaps concerned of what sort of conclusions I'll jump to if I know the truth.

"What would you think if I said that I have?" My heart jumps into my throat, quivering at the thought of him caring so much.

"Then…what about your responsibilities?" I regret my words immediately. It sounds like I'm scolding or accusing him. He wants to escape, but I don't let him. "No, that's not what I meant." I grab onto a leather strap on his breastplate and hold on, keeping him here despite his discomfort. He frowns.

"It was just today…tonight, rather…and perhaps last night…" he confesses and begins to stumble over his words. He doesn't do so often, but when he does I know that he's struggling against a powerful emotion of some kind. In this case, I imagine it's either shame or embarrassment. "I couldn't concentrate on anything. Dorian was…and the waiting, the wondering, not knowing if you were alright…they were…"

"You don't have to explain," I rush to tell him. "I understand, and I'm glad you're here. I…needed you here." His fingers still against the nape of my neck, his eyes hard and unyielding once more. Duty is all he knows. In this world where rules and faith have been broken by a madman's corruption, he needs the security of mundane tasks and paperwork to keep him whole. Our love is an element of uncertainty. It breaks the chain of security; our emotions intervene. The battle at Adamant hammered the realization into me that we might all die tomorrow. All it would take is the slightest error, the slightest mistake. I might lose this man to war – my irreplaceable Commander – just as he may lose me. I wonder if the thought terrifies him as much as it does me, but I don't have to wonder for long. When he tugs me towards him and breathes my name against our lips, I know that the same fear haunts him.

We've kissed and embraced many times before. Being this close and touching him still makes me dizzy, but it's a dance to which I know the steps. I know what to expect, and I thrill in anticipation of his attention. I love the way he gentles his touch when he caresses me, the way his voice lowers and turns into a husky purr when I do something that feels good. Like softly tugging on his curls, just there behind his ear, or slipping my hand between the breaks of his armor and running my palm against the crest of his shoulder under his mantle. I love how the scar on his lip feels against the corner of my mouth, the way he deepens our kiss and leaves me feeling so breathless that I lose track of time and space.

It's been so long, it seems, since we've allowed ourselves this reprieve. My heart flutters in my chest with each moment that passes this way. Each kiss, a healing spell. Each stroke of his tongue, a fan to the growing flames within my core. He's shy at first; then, not so much. Every time we touch, he shows me something new – a new facet to the endless turns and twists of who he is. He pushes, bends me back, and uses a hand on my forehead to tilt my head and expose my neck. As his lips trail fire down my throat, I lose myself again, for once glad and happy to be lost on paths both well-worn and unexplored. I am a huntress and tracker, but even Andruil couldn't help me find my way within the complexities of my Commander. He is wholly unique, and it is why I cannot stop myself from wanting more and more of him.

At length, Cullen breaks our embrace. Our eyes meet. My palms have settled on his chest. Beneath the broad metal breastplate, I feel his heart thundering like a war drum. I feel the raw heat and need surging from him like an aura all its own, and I finally understand that I've just stepped onto yet another new path in our relationship. Something is different. I sense it in the way his hands are trembling – light and almost imperceptible – and in the way his eyes shimmer in the moonlight. He's afraid, but not of losing me.

"What is it?" I ask him, my voice husky and my throat so dry that I can hardly speak.

"Perhaps we shouldn't…you're still tired and you should rest…" He moves back and helps me stand. I don't like this sudden distance between us, and I tell him so by pulling him down for another kiss.

"Don't leave," I whisper. "I need you." With a groan, he pulls me flush against him. My shoulders to his chest. My chest to his abdomen. My belly against his groin. And therein lies the truth of it. I feel my face flush when the evidence of his arousal presses against me. I understand, then, why he is hesitating. Our kisses have always been passionate, but they've bordered on playful and affectionate. As I look up at him, I see and feel nothing playful about this mood we've wandered into. I give myself a moment to understand what continuing down this road will mean and realize that I don't want to stop. With utmost care, I lift the imaginary veil that separates us, pressing myself closer to let him know of my consent.

The dynamic between us changes in a heartbeat. We careen into each other like dancing birds in flight. Between hot desperate kisses, his arms wrap around my body. He lifts me off the ground and sets me down on the bed, pushing me back until all I can see is him, until he is my world. Our fingers thread together, twining as much as our lips and our tongues. My body aches. My skin hurts. My soul cries out to be joined with the man I love.

His hands push aside the blankets, and I gasp when his fingers travel up my sides, grazing my ribcage and finally settling over my breasts. The sound seems to jerk him out of a trance. He pulls away from my neck and leans back, loosening the buckles and laces of first his bracers then his chest plate to give him a wider range of movement. As he leans back down and over me, the fur of his mantle tickles my cheek. At first, a giggle nearly bubbles past my control, but all mirth is drowned out when he kisses my chin and stares down at me.

"Are you certain?" he asks. The question may seem vague, but I know what he needs me to say. "We don't have to do this now. I'll stay even if we don't." His bare hand caresses the line of my jaw, trailing upwards to the point of my ear. I shiver, feeling an unfamiliar and painful heat pool in my belly. "I'll stay until you fall asleep and after, if you wish it."

"I wish it," I reply, "but only after this." He kisses my hand and waits, his eyes searching mine for hesitation. He wants to be sure. Then, at last –

"As you Command," he murmurs and nuzzles his cheek against mine.


	3. A Future

**A/N: **I'm sorry this took so long to post! Holidays have kept me busier than expected. I hope you guys enjoy!

Some have asked if I will continue this with a sequel. It's possible that I could make an epilogue, but I'm not sure how many people would be interested.

If you are, let me know :)

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**WARNING: **This chapter contains **mature** **content**. Please remember that this story is rated M for a reason. Thank you!

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**Judgment**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3 - A Future<strong>

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Once, on a hunt in the wilderness, my prey was stolen from me by a creature I'd only heard of in our Keeper's tales - a Red Lion. They mostly lived higher up in the mountains and tended to avoid encounters with people. These animals were solitary hunters - fierce and independent. No one in our Clan had ever seen one. I was the first, and that day, I was sure that I was going to die.

I remember being frozen in fear as I watched it pounce on the doe I'd been stalking and break its neck with a single snap of its massive jaws, I remember being unable to move even after it spotted me, and I remember the moment in which our eyes met for the first time. I imagined how easily it could break me with its large paws - imagined how easily it could snap _my_ neck if it willed it. I knew I should run, but I couldn't leave. I didn't want to. In the end, it wasn't fear that kept me from escaping.

It was fascination.

Here was a true hunter - a _true_ predator and master of the forest.

Its eyes hypnotized me, as did its movements. The hunger in those eyes felt familiar somehow; a hunger for life drove it, much like it did all of nature. I watched its muscles move, stretch, and contract beneath sleek and striped crimson fur as it approached me. Graceful, silent, and deadly. I didn't dare move. As it circled me, I wondered if it wanted to devour me, and for some reason that notion didn't frighten me as much I would have thought it would. I found myself wondering what it might be like to become a part of this magnificent beast. Would it carry my spirit to new hunting grounds? Would I be able to experience the thrill of its power and its strength? Would my spirit wander the forests in its body, leaping over rocks and trees as it hunted? Envisioning this, I closed my eyes and waited, convinced that the animal wouldn't hesitate to kill me.

Yet, death did not come for me that day. After circling me a few times, the lion lost interest. I wasn't a threat, and that seemed to satisfy him. The lion picked up the doe and disappeared into the trees, almost like it had never been. I always wondered if I would see him again, if another pair of eyes would ever draw me in like those of that rare animal.

And they have.

Right now, I stare into another pair of amber orbs full of hunger – not for sustenance or life this time, but for _me._

I'm not afraid. Although my Commander has shown me yet another side to him I've never seen, I don't resist. Instead, I find myself wishing to be devoured once more, to be a part of him. His incredible golden eyes are windows into a storm - a lust and hunger that I fear won't be quenched in a single encounter. He considers me for a time, his gaze reminding me so much of that day in the forest. When a corner of his lips turns up in a mischievous smirk, I feel my legs go numb.

I suddenly can't look him in the eyes anymore. Ridiculous, really. This isn't my first time being with a man. I don't consider myself a shy and blushing virgin, but right now, I feel like one. When he moves towards me, I move back. My breath slows and stoppers in my throat. His presence is suddenly everywhere, the fur mantle on his shoulders making him look even larger. I almost expect him to stop and hesitate, to wonder why I'm moving away. But, he doesn't. Those would be the actions of a shy Cullen, and the man before me has already shed that mask. I've given my consent, and the chase has begun. Those hypnotic eyes look me up and down, leaving a trail of fiery sensation in their wake. He's already undressing me with his mind, imagining how it will feel to touch me, and wondering what my voice will sound like when I surrender to him.

"Cullen," I whisper, floundering for something to say to cover my sudden embarrassment. I look at his armor, then his chest, then the drapes around the bed – anywhere just to avoid his face. "Maybe I should…we should…um…" He still doesn't stop moving forward, and I suddenly feel very much like that doe in the wilds. What's wrong with me? Why am I so intimidated all of a sudden? I wanted this, didn't I? My eyes fall to his hands, then glide up to the neckline of his armor, then settle on his lips.

"Your armor…maybe you should take it off…" I scoot back on the bed until there's nowhere else to go.

"Hush," he commands when my back presses against the headboard of the bed. The order comes out as a low purr, that single word washing over me and making my heart race. His gloved hand reaches for me, and I gasp when his thumb brushes over my cheek, slides down my neck, and ghosts against my collarbone. He traces its line then delves lower. I feel as though I've drunk a glass of rich wine. Heat pools in my abdomen; my head spins.

His fingers reach for the ties of my chemise. With aching slowness, he tugs on the string and peels one side of the thin covering away from my skin. The cool air from the open window caresses my breast first, but Cullen's gaze follows soon after. I expect him to touch me, anticipating it so much that my nipples harden and my skin breaks out in goosebumps. I imagine how the leather of his glove will feel against me. Will it be soft or rough? Will it feel good or will I want him to take it off so I can feel the warmth of his hand?

A few moments pass, but he _doesn't _touch me.

He simply stares. Much like that lion in the wilds. Like he wants to consume me. I've never seen anyone look at me this way, and it makes my mouth go dry. When I can't stand the wait anymore, I finally call his name.

"Hm?" The corner of his lips tilts up even farther, making the scar there dip and curl. I feel an insane urge to lick it. He's teasing me, I realize, thrilling at the thought. Leaning forward, he breathes a question against my ear: "What is it, Inquisitor?" I bite my lip when he reaches over with his left hand and tugs down the other side of my chemise, leaving me bare from the waist up. I look down, watching as my chest rises and falls at an increasing rate.

"You're breathless," he whispers. "Why is that?"

"It's, oh…" I begin to explain, but my words disappear into another gasp when he moves and his robes brush against my nipples. Their rough texture seems to _grind_ against my sensitive flesh, and I barely manage to suppress a wanton moan.

"You're trembling, Inquisitor," he chuckles. Creators. I've never heard him laugh like this – soft and low, a sound that vibrates in my chest. "What's come over you?" I struggle to answer, swallowing past a lump in my throat.

"You," I murmur. "You've come over me."

"No," he denies in a lustful whisper. "Not yet." He suddenly moves away, and it's as though the sun has set and left me barren and cold. I shiver in his absence, tempted to pull him back. His deft fingers untie the other strings holding my flimsy garment together. In seconds, it falls away, leaving me completely exposed. In a flash of shyness, I try to wrap my arms around my body. He doesn't stop me.

"You shouldn't hide," he says. "You're beautiful." I reward his flattery with a blush that even I don't anticipate. Sliding closer to me, he bends forward until his silken lips press against the swell of my breast. He starts slow, first teasing me with butterfly kisses then finally relenting and cupping both mounds with his hands. Those magical hands – big, warm, and kneading. Flicking with a thumb then pinching just to the point where I can't help but whimper. I arch into him, unable to stifle a ragged moan when his tongue darts out to lave against a hardened nipple. I feel it all the way in my core – an explosion of something that's both painful and wonderful.

"Cullen," I rasp, my hands flying forward and tangling in his hair.

"Do you like that?" he asks. His husky voice rumbles against my breast, making my heart skitter and quake. I want to answer, but before I can, my thoughts splinter, shattering into a thousand different fragments of euphoria as he draws the hypersensitive bud into his mouth and begins to suckle. When his teeth graze against me, I move my hands away from his hair and dig them into the fur of his mantle, afraid that I'll hurt him. He shifts against me until I can feel his hand slipping down my leg. Wonderful, sweet, and tantalizing pain is building at the apex of my thighs. I _need _him to touch me there, and I try to convey my desire by moving my hips against his palm. To my chagrin, he moves his hand away. I fumble for his arm, grabbing a ridge of one of his bracers and forcing his hand back where I want it. He chuckles at my obvious frustration.

"What is it, Inquisitor?" he asks, pressing a kiss against my navel. "Do you want me to touch you here?" The villain. As if he doesn't know.

"Please?" I shudder, desperate and ashamed to find myself begging. With a grin, he pulls me against him so that I'm lying flat on the mattress. Leaning on his elbow over me, he touches his forehead to mine, and our eyes meet once more. He traps me there, imprisons me with his heat and his presence. I can feel his arousal pressing against my hip. When I apply some pressure there with a wandering palm, he groans and closes his eyes, instinctively thrusting against my hand.

"Part your thighs for me," he orders against my lips, his voice a little hoarse. A few fevered kisses later, I eagerly obey. My heart pounds chaotically within my chest, so loud that I wonder if he can hear it. At first, I think he's going to tease me again, but it seems that he's reaching his limit just as I am. He tugs off his glove, then gently rakes the tips of his fingers down my abdomen.

"Please," I say again, growing more and more impatient. I'm so needy and aroused that I don't even feel shame at lying here before him, open and exposed – vulnerable to his overpowering stare. His fingers move down, lower and lower, until his thumb finally presses against – _yes! Creators above have mercy..._The pressure is perfect. He moves his fingers, and whatever he's doing feels incredible. My head falls back and I rush to cover my mouth to avoid letting out a loud and very unladylike wail of bliss.

"Don't," he demands gruffly, nipping at my neck. "I want to hear your cries of pleasure." I shake my head, unwilling to let go of this last bit of dignity in front of him.

"Shall I stop, then?" His fingers still in their ministrations, and I practically snarl at him.

"No," I answer too quickly. "Please, don't stop."

"Then don't hold back," he purrs. He presses against me with a thumb while one finger slips lower, probing gently at first then slipping inside me – filling me, stretching me, driving me mad. "Let me hear you scream for me." Another finger slips in to join the first. In and out – slick and hard, curling and twisting, a delicious and wicked rhythm that's only made more perfect by the motions of his thumb. I break. I fall apart. I do as he commands me to; I moan and I whine; I rake my nails down his arms. Perhaps I even scream as he desires, begging and pleading for more.

"My name," he demands.

"Cullen," I cry out obediently, terrified that he'll stop.

"So wet…Maker…" he groans. He's losing control, too, I realize just as my climax hurtles me over the edge. But it's not over. My hunger for him is far from sated, and even the stars that explode in my vision don't stop me from pulling him against me for a long, deep, and dirty kiss. He bites gently at my lower lip while my tongue seeks his out. All the while, his fingers work in and out of me, building me up into another frenzy of need and lust.

"I want you," I tell him in a shuddering voice. "I want you so much." Though he's removed one of his gloves, he has yet to take off the rest of his armor. Imaging how much time that would take frustrates me, and I'm too far gone to care if he's dressed or not when he takes me. I grab his belt and tug on the buckle. He understands my urgency. While I unclasp his sash, he manages to free his erection from his pants. Just the sight of it makes me lick my lips. There's something thrilling about this – me lying here naked while he's still in full armor. It feels dirty and somehow forbidden, and I love it.

I want to say something else, but he silences me by grabbing my hips and urging me to flip over. I can sense that he's past talking now as he maneuvers me into a position that both shames and thrills me. I'm on all fours in front of him, and as he nudges my legs apart with his knee, I bite my lip to keep from mewling in excitement. I hear the slide of armor and the rasp of leather a split second before I gasp as his breastplate presses into my back. It's cold – a shock against my sweat-covered skin. Then all thoughts of discomfort disappear when I feel him slide his shaft against me. He feels like molten steel wrapped in velvet. My mind goes blank. I wiggle my hips, urging him to enter me – to take me, to possess me.

The first thrust is somewhat painful. He's so much bigger than I expected. As he drives into me to the hilt, I give a little yell and fall forward onto my elbows. The sensation is indescribable. He's filling me to bursting. It's almost too intense; almost _too_ much to bear. But, still, I want more. He stops and leans over me, his big body shuddering and trembling.

"Are you alright?" he asks quickly. "Does it hurt? Maker, you're so tight…" The gentle Cullen is back. All hints of teasing and commanding are gone from his voice, replaced by true concern. He scatters kisses between my shoulders, running his hand through my hair and calling my name. After a few moments, my body relaxes, easing around him and accommodating his size. "Perhaps we shouldn't…"

"Don't stop," I beg him. "Please, don't stop."

"I don't want to hurt you," he protests.

"You won't," I give my assurance. He moves again, and this time there is no pain – only a building pressure and a growing bundle of sensation deep in my womb. I encourage him, both with my voice and with my body, until a slow and careful rhythm turns into wave after wave of ecstasy. Only when he's certain that I'm truly alright does he lose himself with me. His voice echoes in my ear as he murmurs my name, his heavy breaths and grunts of pleasure exciting me even further. To think that I can make a man like this feel this way is an aphrodisiac more potent than any herb or tonic. When his hands clamp around my hips to keep me still, my fingers dig into the sheets. With every snap of his hips, I'm hurled farther and farther towards my climax.

"Harder," I growl, gritting my teeth. He obliges, but not before pushing on my back and pressing me into the bed. The new angle is incredible and allows me to catch a glimpse of his face. His cheeks are flushed, his lips parted, and his eyes ablaze. He reaches his peak just moments before I do. Warmth floods me a split second before he bends down and nearly collapses on top of me. Even in this state, though, he's careful not to hurt me, putting all of his weight on one arm to keep his weight off of my body.

I lose track of time. I forget where I am – forget everything that has been troubling me. The nightmares, the regrets, the heavy decisions. Everything melts away as though swept aside by a merciful hand. We lie still, a panting and quivering mess of limbs, leather, metal, and fur. Only after we've regained our senses do we look at each other again. Words don't come, though. There aren't any words that I can use to describe how much this moment means to me. I have no idea what to say at a time like this, and it would seem that he doesn't either. So, he just smiles. When another breeze from the open window makes me shiver, he slides away from me. There's a bit of shyness to his actions when he tucks himself back into his leggings, and I can't help but feel a rush of tenderness for him.

"Are you cold?" he asks me. "Perhaps I should summon someone to, um, draw a bath." He pulls his glove back on and rubs the back of his neck. With painful reluctance, I push myself up into a sitting position and don the wrinkled mess that's my chemise. He steps to the window and pulls it shut. Seeing him standing here in my quarters makes me think of things I shouldn't. Like how I wish he would always be here with me; how I wish I could sleep with him beside me. Flights of fancy. Certainly nothing that I should mention to him. He looks like he's brooding over something, and I imagine that the topic lies somewhere within the spectrum of our relationship.

"Won't the servants gossip if they see the Commander ordering a bath for the Inquisitor?" I ask in jest, hoping that a little teasing would lighten the burden of my thoughts.

"Rina is...discreet," he says. "Dorian made certain to find someone who could keep quiet about such things." He turns back to me, and I realize that he didn't catch on to my tone. His answer is so serious that I frown.

"Does our relationship burden you?" The question spills from my lips before I can stop it.

"No, that's not...Why would you think that?" I motion for him to come closer.

"Would you be angry if I said that I didn't care what anyone thought of us?" When he sees that I'm craning my neck to look up at him, he kneels beside the bed. I take one of his hands between mine and guide it to my face, nuzzling into his palm.

"No," he replies. "I'm alright with that. If you are." His answer isn't what I expect, and I feel lucky enough to try and push things a little farther. There's a topic I want to broach, but I haven't the slightest clue how to go about doing it.

"Cullen," I say at length. "May I ask you something?"

"Anything," he smiles. My heart does a little flip in my chest.

_What does this mean for us? _– I yearn to know. _What did this change between us? _My mouth opens and I take several breaths to voice my concerns, but nothing comes out. I feel as though I've been Silenced. After several failed attempts, I look down and bite my lip, wondering if I shouldn't leave this topic well enough alone. We've never spoken of the future. In our situation, doing so might be folly.

"I love you," he says. The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. When I look at him again, I know my eyes are wide and my face bears an expression of surprise.

"What?" I whisper, convinced that I'd misheard him.

"I love you," he says again, his voice stronger this time. His hand slides around to cup the back of my head; his fingers thread into my hair. "I know we had an unspoken agreement to…" he falters momentarily, but plows on, "…to keep things casual between us. I know that this is far from the right time to be saying such things. But, I can't keep silent any more. I love you, and I don't want to live another second without you beside me."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes, I do." Something wet and warm drips down my cheek, and with more than a little shock and embarrassment, I realize that it's a tear.

"I…" Creators. Was he saying what I thought he was? Did this mean it was alright to let go of the restraint on my emotions? Did this mean it was alright to think of a future? Together? With him? I slip off the edge of the mattress and throw my arms around him. He returns my embrace with just as much fervor. "I love you, too. I have for a long time now. But, Cullen…"

_We could die tomorrow…_my heart laments.I want to say as much, but he shakes his head and presses a finger to my lips.

_I won't allow it…_his heart whispers back to mine.


End file.
